The Art of MOAS Hunting
by Calliatra
Summary: In which Tony tries to find McGee's MOAS. Written for the Ironic Much? Challenge and the All Is Discovered Challenge at NFA.
1. Part 1: In Theory

**The Art of MOAS Hunting**

_by Calliatra_

**Rating**: FR13

**Summary**: In which Tony tries to find McGee's MOAS. Written for the Ironic Much? Challenge and the All Is Discovered Challenge at NFA.

**Disclaimer: **All recognizable NCIS characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**A/N:** I know that Abby didn't talk to Tony about MOASs until "Suspicion" (S04E12), but it just fit _so_ well. So just pretend they had that conversation earlier, okay?

Also, this is my very first attempt at a humorous fic. Feedback would be much appreciated, constructive criticism even more so! :)

* * *

**Part 1: In Theory**

Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo was bored. Very bored. So bored, in fact, that he temporarily considered actually doing the paperwork he was supposed to be completing. It was only a fleeting thought, however. Never let it be said that Anthony DiNozzo would willing occupy himself with something as mundane as paperwork. It might do irreparable harm to his reputation. And besides, there would be plenty of time to complete his report when Gibbs got back from his meeting with the Director and made it impossible for him to do anything else. No, this was precious time, valuable for its complete lack of supervision and therefore the opportunity to do whatever he wanted to.

If only he could come up with something. He had already turned superfluous printouts into paper jets and sent them soaring across the squad room, much to the delight of his coworkers (as expressed by muted grumbling and the occasional yelp when one of the missiles came perilously close to sensitive body parts or hot coffee). He had also used up all the staples in his stapler in an attempt to create a miniature version of the Eiffel Tower. Apparently engineering was not his strong point, however, as the remains of that project now lay strewn across the floor in front of his desk. Well, that shouldn't be a problem, not unless someone walked by barefoot. Or tripped. Or knelt down to pick something up. Okay, so maybe it would be a problem, but he could always sweep the staples up later. Or, better yet, wait for the cleaning crew to do it. Yes, that would probably be best.

He really hadn't expected Gibbs to be gone this long, or he would have come up with a far more creative and entertaining way to waste time. The fact that he was failing to do just that at this very moment did not deter him in the least from his firm belief that he _would have_, if only his boss had the courtesy to announce lengthy absences in advance. Then again, that was probably exactly why Gibbs didn't announce them. That, and the fact that if Tony didn't know how long he would be gone, he could sneak up from behind and find a reason to headslap him.

Tony tensed, fully expecting his head to be propelled forward by a hard blow. None came. He cautiously peeked over his shoulder, only to find himself terrified of thin air. Clearly, boredom was making him paranoid. He needed to do something about it. He needed a co-conspirator. And at the moment, there was really only one person to fill that role.

* * *

Mossad Officer Ziva David was busy. Not necessarily in the way she liked to be busy, such as interrogating suspects or demonstrating her hand-to-hand combat skills to criminals foolish enough to challenge her, but busy nonetheless. Case reports were a necessary part of the job and while she did not particularly enjoy them, she had been trained to do what it gives. Or was it "takes"?

It irritated her, the way she could speak English completely flawlessly right up until she had to use an idiom. The most complex grammatical structures posed no difficulties for her whatsoever, but the moment an idiom was involved, her brain seemed to black out. Admittedly, most of the idioms she got wrong made no logical sense at all, but that was in the nature of an idiom. Why could she not just memorize which pointless strings of words belonged together and what they meant when placed in that order? It had worked for all other languages she had learnt. Why did she always have to get English idioms so incorrigibly, comically wrong?

And why was she thinking about that, anyway? She had a report to finish. The sooner she finished her report, the sooner the case could be officially closed. And the sooner the case was officially closed, the sooner she could do something – _anything_ – else. All right, so maybe she was a little bit irritated with all the paperwork.

Her teammate's antics certainly weren't helping her remain calm. Tony hadn't dared throw any of his paper planes her way – at least not after she had glanced his way while deliberately fondling a paper clip – but it was not exactly easy to work when all around her her colleagues were busy constructing makeshift air raid shelters (consisting mainly of a strategic placement of spare whiteboards to ward off the stray planes). When he had finally run out of paper, he had started clicking his stapler in a staccato just off-beat enough to make it impossible to ignore. Now that he had managed to distribute a fine sprinkling of staples all throughout the entire area, he had grown suspiciously quiet. It was the sort of quiet that usually preceded a particularly indignant squeal by McGee or at times a crash of some sort, depending on what particular prank Tony had come up with for his colleague.

McGee had, however, already finished his report and, after taking one terrified look at Tony, had fled to the relative safety of Abby's lab. Now Ziva was the only one left in the immediate vicinity, which was why Tony's silence was slightly perturbing. Not that she really thought he would dare attempt a prank on her, but a preventative measure might do wonders.

* * *

Tony's head snapped up when a projectile whizzed by within millimetres of his left ear and hit the cubicle wall behind him with a thwack. Turning, he saw the handle of Ziva's knife sticking out of the flimsy orange divider. He wondered briefly if it might have impaled whoever was on the other side, but dismissed the thought. There had been no scream, and besides, anyone who stood that close to a wall had no one but themselves to blame, anyway. Walls were dangerous. Admittedly, he couldn't, at the moment, think of any other instances in which a wall might pose a threat, but he was sure there were some. DiNozzo Rule Number… what number was he on, anyway? Might as well make it Twenty, that sounded nice: If you stand too close to a wall, it's your own fault.

(Tony needn't have worried. Everyone at NCIS headquarters had learned long ago that it was best to give the entire MCRT a wide berth at all times. Crazy and dangerous things always seemed to happen to the team and anyone who associated with it. On the rare occasions that Gibbs' team was not in danger of being abducted/tortured/killed/hurt-in-some-other-unimaginable-way by the deranged and/or vengeful criminal of the week, danger seemed to emanate from the team itself. There was the senior field agent, from whose pranks nothing and no one was safe. There was the Mossad liaison officer with the short temper and the mad assassin skills. There was the forensic scientist who responded to anything she did not like by carefully explaining how she could kill whoever displeased her without leaving behind any evidence. There was the computer geek who seemed nice enough, but was probably the worst of them all – how else could he have survived on that team for so long? Finally, there was Gibbs, the team leader, the living legend whose gaze turned the most experienced field agents into stammering probies and whose glare promised great misfortune to anyone who dared defy him. No one was entirely sure _what_ he would do if crossed – the tales diverged greatly on this point – but no one was crazy enough to risk finding out. No, nobody at NCIS was foolish enough to get in that team's way. If that meant occasionally slinking undignifiedly along the outer walls before sprinting to the safety of the elevator, so be it. Why oh why did the MCRT have to be in such a central position of the bullpen?)

The more pressing problem at the moment for Tony was the origin of the knife. Specifically, the pissed-off assassin who had thrown it. Ziva was glowering at him from behind her desk (Thank goodness for small barriers!) and was giving the general impression that asking her why she had just flung a pointy projectile his way wouldn't be the smartest move. The problem was, he really _didn't _know why he had nearly been speared, and the only way to avoid that fate in the future seemed to be finding out what he had done, so he could avoid doing it ever again. At least as long as Ziva had that homicidal glint in her eyes. Tony settled for giving her a questioning glance (which, to the objective observer, may just have looked a little bit like a petrified stare).

"Do not dare!" was the growl he received in return. Okay, so it wasn't something he had done, it was something he had yet to do. But while he didn't put it past her to have freaky ninja mindreading skills, all he had been planning to do was speak to her. Well, best to play it safe. He wasn't sure just how many spare knives she kept on her, after all.

"All right, all right, I won't." When he received no violent retaliation, he added, "But come on, I'm bored!"

"Tony, you have work to do!" Ziva snapped. "why can you not just get it done quietly?"

"I'm an investigator, Zee-vah! Writing reports is a paper-pusher's job. I should be out there, investigating. It's what I have a gift for, it's my calling!"

"What you mean is you like to stick your face in other people's business, yes?"

"Nose, Ziva, _nose_. You stick your _nose_ in other people's business."

"Why just your nose? Would it not be better to use your eyes to see what the person is doing?"

"It's an expression. I never said it made sense."

"Well, what would you want to stick your _nose_ in at the moment? We have no case."

"Ah, that's no obstacle to a trained investigator. One as good as me can uncover secrets anywhere."

"Really? And just where would find a secret to uncover, Tony? Finding out if Betsy from Accounting will go out with you hardly counts."

"Everybody has secrets, Ziva. All around us, all the people have things that no one can know. Everyone has that deep, dark secret that could ruin them if someone found out."

"Everyone, Tony? All people have something they would not like other people to know, but those are embarrassing things, not things that would ruin them. I think you are running away with your imagination."

"It's- oh, never mind. You may not want to believe it, Zee-vah, but _everyone_ has a MOAS."

"What is a moh-ass?"

"Mother of all secrets. A secret that will destroy your life as you know it if it ever gets out."

"And you are saying that every single person has one?"

"Exactly!"

"All right, what about McGee?"

"Ha! Ha, I see what you're trying to do, here. Trying to throw me by playing the old 'Look-At-This-Upstanding-Citizen-And-His-Innocent-Puppy-Dog-Eyes' card. Well, it won't work.

Even our oh-so-harmless little McGeek has secrets. Hell, he probably has skeletons in his closet that we don't even begin to suspect because of that wholesome air of his."

"And you are sure of this?"

"Absolutely."

"Okay, then prove it."

"…what?"

"Prove it. If your theory is correct, McGee has a big secret. You said just now that you are good at sticking your _nose_ into other people's business to find out what they are hiding. So do that with McGee. If you really are as good as you say you are, you should have no trouble finding his secret. _If_ he has one. If you prove that McGee has a… _moas_?... I will believe that your theory is correct. If he is not hiding anything, clearly your theory is wrong. And since you are _so_ certain that you are right, I am sure you would not mind taking a little bet with me on this, yes?"

"Er, well…"

"Or would you rather admit right away that you were telling a high tail?"

"_Tall_ tale," Tony corrected automatically. (At first, Ziva's tendency to get expressions mixed up had been entertaining, but after telling her for what felt like the hundredth time that it was _needles _you looked for in haystacks, his amusement had faded. These days, unless her mistake could be misconstrued as a double entendre, he merely offered a correction in the vain hope that she might someday get it right.)

"Whatever kind of tail you have-" (Here Tony opened his mouth, because that one was really too good to pass up…) "-I want evidence of it!" (…and shut it again, needing a few seconds to file away those particular mental images.) "Or are you a chicken?"

She would get _that one_ right. Well, close enough. "DiNozzos are not chicken. Bring it on!"

"You have one week to prove that McGee has a secret. If you do not, I want you to do whatever I tell you to for the next week."

"And when I do find McGee's MOAS? Do I get to order you around for a week?"

"_If_ you could prove it, which you will not, I would do whatever you told me to for a week."

"What_ever_ I tell you to?"

"As long as it is does not interfere with our jobs. Or break Gibbs' rules."

_Damn, there go those possibilities._ "But if, for example, I told you to make me breakfast every morning…"

"I would have to do that. _If_ you win."

"Miss David, you are on." Tony held out his hand and Ziva shook it formally.

* * *

"What I don't get," Tony said out of the blue, minutes later, "is why you would do this to McGee. I though you were friends?"

"We are. What does that have to do with anything?"

"You just bet me to find his MOAS. You do realize that once a person's MOAS gets out, their life is destroyed forever?"

"It is because I am friends with McGee that I know he is too good a person to have a secret that could destroy his life."

"I'm not saying that you're right, but even if you are, he definitely has _some things_ he wouldn't want other people knowing about. Are you so focused on beating me that the feelings of your friend don't matter to you anymore?"

"I see what you are trying to do. You are trying to get me to forfeit. It will not work. I told you to prove that McGee has a secret, not to share it with everyone. In fact, if I find out that you are using what you find out to hurt McGee deliberately… it will not be pleasant for you."

Tony gulped.

Then he set to work. He only had a week to find McGee's deepest, darkest secret. Even for a world-class investigator like him, it was going to be a challenge. He grabbed a piece of paper that had miraculously escaped being requisitioned for his air show and started scribbling down ideas.

* * *

So it came that when Gibbs returned to the squad room, prepared to headslap his senior field agent into the next millennium, his hand stopped midair. DiNozzo was, unbelievable as it seemed, hunched over his desk, busily writing. It wasn't the act he put on when he noticed his boss approaching, he was actually honestly engrossed in the work he was doing.

To say that Gibbs was surprised was an understatement. He had fully expected to find his team's area in DiNozzo-induced chaos, but instead it seemed to be the most orderly in the whole bull pen. Apart from several handfuls of staples that were scattered around DiNozzo's desk for no apparent reason, nothing was amiss. There appeared to be pieces of paper scattered throughout the entire rest of the squad room, however, and several other teams had chosen distinctly odd positions for their whiteboards. Gibbs had the distinct feeling that any investigation into the matter would lead him right back to where he was now, preparing to deliver an almighty headslap to his senior field agent.

Then he spotted the knife sticking out of the partition wall. Ah, that would explain the curiously docile DiNozzo. Evidently Ziva had beaten him to the punch. Or the knife throwing. In any case, DiNozzo had clearly been _discouraged_ from doing whatever it was he had been doing. Gibbs decided not to spoil his perfectly good mood (meaning the uncommon absence of a desire to throttle someone) by looking a gift horse in the mouth. And if DiNozzo seemed just a little too interested in the report he was writing, well, it was better than having him trying to find creative ways to avoid paperwork.


	2. Part 2: In Practice

**Part 2: In Practice**

Five days later, Tony had to admit that perhaps he had underestimated the task at hand. So far, his investigations had turned up nothing whatsoever. To the best of his knowledge, McGee's greatest secret was that he _had_ no secrets. True, he didn't really seem to be trying to keep that fact a secret, but come on! Anyone would be embarrassed to have a life as boring as that. Or they ought to be, at least. Sighing, he thought back on the past few days.

* * *

**Wednesday**.

"Wow. I can't believe we're actually getting out of the office at a decent time, today. This is nice."

"Big plans, Probie?"

"Yes, Tony. In the three minutes since Gibbs suddenly announced that we could go home for the night I arranged to have big plans. Without using my cell phone or in any way communicating with the outside world."

(It had taken them three minutes to get in the elevator mainly because Gibbs' decision to call it a night had left them all too stunned to move for quite a while. Granted, there had been no reason to stay later than standard office hours, but that fact did nothing to diminish the weird feeling not staying late gave everyone. They hadn't even been made to finish what they were working on. In Tony's case, that was a Very Good Thing, since he hadn't actually gotten any work done.)

"Geez, no need snap, McSnippy. Can't a guy casually and innocently inquire after the plans of his co-workers?"

"A guy? Sure. You? No. There is never anything innocent about anything you do. So what do you want?"

"To make conversation. So, you're not doing anything exciting and oh, possibly illegal tonight?"

Behind them, Ziva snorted. Let her. He knew what he was doing. The direct method often worked best of people like McGee who simply weren't made to keep secrets and would divulge them instantly upon being cornered.

"No, Tony, I'm not."

Hm. It seemed the Probie was made of tougher stuff than he'd thought. Luckily, he had a Plan B.

* * *

**Thursday.**

"Hey, Abby."

"Tony! What'cha got for me?"

Tony produced Step One ("Win Hearts and Minds") of Plan B, in the form on an extra large Caf-Pow.

"Ooh, a super-sized one. You must want something really difficult. So, what is it? Another hair I need to examine for miniscule traces of drugs? That actually wouldn't be that difficult now, 'cause I made friends with Marty and he could probably let me use his IMS. It was the weirdest thing, 'cause he bowls and I bowl and-"

"I haven't got a hair for you, Abby."

"Oh. Someone poisoned with an untraceable toxin, then?"

"No."

"You found pollen in a victim's nostrils and you need me to find out exactly where he's been?"

"Uh-uh."

"You… need me to lift a print from a disembodied limb again?"

"Nope."

"Okay, I give up. Tell me what impossible feat Gibbs needs done in half the time it would take Superman to do it. I didn't even know you guys had caught a case! You really should keep me in the loop more. But I guess if you were busy hunting bad guys-"

"Abby, we don't have a case."

"What do you mean, you don't have a case? Are you working cold cases, then? Do you need me to retest old evidence?"

"No, we don't have any case at all. We're still dealing with our backlog of paperwork."

"Well then why are you here?"

"I thought I'd come visit you. You know there's no one I'd rather chat with."

"Aw, that's really sweet of you, Tony! After all, I'm all alone here all the time when you don't have a case to bring me evidence from. But aren't you going to get in trouble with Gibbs?"

"On a coffee run. So, how is my favorite forensic scientist today?"

"Curious about what you really want from me, actually."

"I don't know what you mean."

Ziva, who happened to be walking by, snorted audibly.

"You brought me an extra large Caf-Pow and you risked the wrath of the Bossman to come down here. You definitely want something from me, and it's a big something."

Okay, so maybe his subtlety needed a bit of work.

"Spit it out, Mister!"

"All right. So, you remember when you were dating McGee?"

"I wouldn't exactly call it dating, but yeah, of course. Why?"

"Did you notice anything?"

"Anything, like…?"

"Like a secret, maybe?"

"Okay, tell me what's going on right now!"

"I can't."

"Tony…" she intoned, threateningly.

It wasn't caving, he told himself. It wasn't caving because he was giving in voluntarily. He was humoring her. Yes, that was it, he was humoring her to keep her in a good mood, so she would tell him what he wanted to hear.

"IbetZivaIcouldfindMcGee'sMOASbutIdon'!"

"You're looking for McGee's MOAS? And you thought I'd help you?"

"Uh, yeah."

"McGee's my friend. Why would I help you find his secrets?"

"…because I brought you an extra large Caf-Pow?"

"Good point. But even if I wanted to help you, there's nothing I could tell you. I really don't think McGee has a MOAS. I mean, he's McGee. He's sweet and stammering and he probably couldn't keep a secret of his life depended on it. He's like an adorable baby hippo!"

"Baby _hippo?_" One glance at Abby's expression told him he had better not have anything bad to say about hippos, so (with great difficulty) he swallowed all the comments on the tip of his tongue. "So you can't help me?"

"Well, you already know that he spends most of his free time playing an elf lord in an online video game. What could be more embarrassing than that?"

She had a point. McGee never really tried very hard to keep things like that from the team. Even the possibly only person to ever have slept with him (he shuddered at the thought) wouldn't know more, then. There simply were no more incredibly embarrassing secrets to be had. So whatever the Probie's MOAS was, it had to be something he couldn't share with anyone, ever. Well, time for Plan C.

* * *

**Friday.**

"Heya, Ducky."

"Tony? What brings you down here? Has a body been found somewhere?"

"No, I-"

"So you need me to do a psychological autopsy?"

"No, we don't have a case." Tony made a mental note to visit his coworkers more often just to chat. How was he supposed to subtly sound them out if they got suspicious at the very notion of having a non-work related conversation with him? "I just felt like a chat."

"About something in particular, perhaps?"

"What makes you say that?"

Ziva stuck her head through the door to deliver a snort, and left immediately.

Ducky just raised his eyebrows at him.

"All right, all right. I wanted to talk about McGee."

"Timothy? Why?"

Time to be devious. "I'm worried about him, Ducky. He seems off, somehow, lately. I think something's wrong with him, but he won't talk to me. I was hoping maybe you could help."

"Well, he hasn't said anything to me, if that's what you're wondering. And I have to say, I thought Timothy had been looking rather better than usual, lately."

"But he's been acting odd, and there has to be a reason for it. Maybe something's wrong with him that we don't know about. And I was thinking, since you have access to his medical files…"

"That I might break doctor-patient privilege and divulge his medical details to you?"

"Well, yeah. But not like that. Just, you know, so I know what's wrong and can try to help."

"I'm afraid even that would be deeply unethical. I'm sorry, but I simply cannot do that. I can talk to him, however. Perhaps he will confide in me, as a friend."

"That'd be great, Ducky, thanks." Tony tried not to let his disappointment show.

"If it's any consolation, Tony, any medical problems Timothy may have must be very recent. I reviewed his files only a few weeks ago and saw nothing out of the ordinary."

Tony sighed. So much for Plan C.

"Well, thanks anyway, Ducky. Maybe whatever's wrong with him just isn't medical."

"I would certainly hope so."

_So would I. 'Cause if it is, I'll never find out now._

"You know, this reminds me of a young lad I once know back in Scotland who…"

That was Tony's cue to leave.

"I'm sorry, Ducky, but I really have to get back upstairs. I told Gibbs I was hitting the head, if I stay away any longer he'll probably send Ziva to terrorize the men's room."

It was a good thing Tony was a patient man (if only by his own assessment; anyone else would be far more likely to describe him in very different terms), otherwise he might have been somewhat frustrated by this point. It was a good thing, too, that he was an inventive man (no one who knew him would have any inclination to disagree on _that_ point), or he might be running out of ideas. As is was, however, he still had quite a few letters of the alphabet to go through. And as long as this investigation was keeping him from having to do paperwork, he had all the patience in the world.

Now for Plan D.

* * *

"Hey, Gibbs?"

Gibbs just _looked_ at him.

Tony swallowed. Well, Plan D had been a long shot, anyway.

"Uh, when I'm done with this report do you want me to email it to you or print it out?"

Another _look_.

"Printout, gotcha."

Tony went back to his scribbling, which was in no way related to the report he was supposed to be working on.

* * *

"Hey, Tony?" McGee turned to him right after Gibbs had gone for coffee, again. (His caffeine intake seemed to increase exponentially with every day they didn't catch a new case and were stuck with the paperwork they ignored the rest of the year. No one was entirely sure how that was even possible, considering the already enormous amounts of coffee he consumed on a regular day. Rumors abounded, especially because he didn't appear to visit the head any more frequently than he usually did. Abby seemed like the best person to go to for an explanation. "Of course there's a scientific explanation for it. Gibbs is magic!" No one wanted to admit believing it, but the faith was drawing more and more disciples every day.)

"What's up, Probie? Do you have a deep, dark secret you just have to confide about in me?"

Tony's computer pinged and he noted that Ziva had sent him an email reading "*snort*".

"Uh, no. I was just wondering why you've been writing stuff by hand since Wednesday. You do realize that even if Gibbs wants hard copied of everything, we still have to type our reports up so they can be added to the digital archives?"

Tony looked at the piece of paper on which he had just finished crossing out "Lure McGee into a deserted circus tent and have him hypnotized by a crazy clown."

"Well, we can't all be McGeeks, McGeek. Some of us like to write things down with an actual pen before surrendering it to a computer."

"But then you'll have to do the work twice! You have to write the report and type it up. You know, statistically speaking, if you spend…"

Tony tuned out his lecture on efficiency in the workplace. McGee had just given him an idea for plan E.

* * *

**Saturday.**

Who the hell came to work on a Saturday? A Saturday when there was no case, anyway. No one, that's who. Nevertheless, Tony was there, at his desk, working on Plan E, "Follow the Paper Trail." Or rather, "follow the digital trail." There had to be a clue to the Probie's MOAS somewhere in the gazillion tons of paperwork they all had to file all the time. And sure, snooping through McGee's personnel file wasn't technically legal, but surely it was in the spirit of the Freedom of Information Act.

Problem was, Tony didn't really know how to get into McGee's personnel file. It was the sort of thing he usually had McGee do. He tried to replicate the commands he'd seen the Probie use, but received nothing but flashing error messages for his troubles. There had to be an easier way to do this. Some way that didn't involve needing a geek. But how to get at the files without having to use a computer…

* * *

"Hi, Trish."

"Tony! I didn't know you were working this weekend."

"I'm not. Well, not really. I've got some paperwork to catch up on, but I got bored. So I thought I'd come here, where the company is so much better." He added his most brilliant smile for full effect.

Tony thought he heard the faint echo of a snort coming from somewhere, but ignored it. He was in his element, he knew exactly how to get what he wanted.

Trish blushed, but didn't seem to have any suspicions. Good things he made a point of regularly flirting with any and all females in the building.

Fifteen minutes later, Tony walked away with McGee's personnel file, as well as his recorded web search history and all officials records on him, dating all the way back to elementary school.

* * *

Eight hours later, he was about ready gouge his eyes out. He was bored beyond belief. He had now read absolutely everything that anyone had ever written about McGee and he was still no closer to finding out what he was hiding. The only thing slightly out of the ordinary was the fact that the McFrugal had recently been spending more money than before, even shopping at an Armani store. Maybe his good taste was finally rubbing off on his Probie. He certainly could teach him a thing or two about appreciating the good things in life.

He sighed. Maybe Ziva was right. Maybe McGee really didn't have anything to hide… NO! He couldn't let himself think like that. _Everybody _had a secret. McGee was no exception. Even if he was starting to look like the most boring man in the universe.

Still, the paperwork wouldn't get him any farther. Time for the next letter of the alphabet. He glanced at his list of plans and noticed that the number of ones not yet tried was seriously dwindling. Hm, he should probably make that a rule, too. DiNozzo Rule Number Twenty-One: If you haven't reached M, you're not prepared enough.

* * *

**Sunday.**

The sound of his cell phone ringing startled Tony out of his daze. He had gotten lost staring at the label of a laundry detergent. Why had he never noticed before how magnificently colorful it was? Oh, right, because he had never before in his life been so abysmally bored. Plans F ("Get Him Drunk") and G ("Get a Midnight Confession") had failed, mainly because McGee had adamantly refused to go clubbing with Tony. So now he was on Plan H, "Tail Him." So far all he had learned was that McGee liked organic food and took an inordinate amount of time to choose between different types of apples.

"DiNozzo."

"Tony, why are you following me?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Probie."

"Tony-"

"Hang on, I've got an incoming call… never mind, that was just Ziva, snorting."

"Tony. I can see you standing in cleaning supplies aisle."

"And did it ever occur to you, McSuspicious, that I might just be shopping for cleaning supplies?"

"You've been following me since I left my apartment this morning."

"Oh, have I?" (Admittedly, that might not have been the wittiest retort he had ever come up with. His brain was still lost in a haze of rainbow-colored butterflies. He really needed to get some of that detergent.)

"Yes, you have."

"Okay, so maybe I was following you. But only because wouldn't come with me last night."

"I wouldn't go out with you, so now you're stalking me?"

"No! Well, yes, but- oh, never mind. I'll you at work tomorrow, Probie."

* * *

Plan I was very straightforward: "Search His Apartment." Tony had done just that while McGoody-Twoshoes was most likely still trying to pick the best union-labeled, locally grown, free range organic avocadoes or something. And he had found nothing. Well, nothing besides heaps of shredded paper which seemed to indicate that the Probie's literary aspirations had come to an end. Oh well, time for Plan… Damn! He'd run out of Plans.

* * *

**Monday.**

So here he was now, in the office bright and early, before anyone else, desperately trying to come up with a new Plan. He kept drawing a blank. He had simply tried everything he could think of. There was nothing in the Probie's apartment, nothing in his records and nothing his friends could tell him.

If McGee had a MOAS, he'd certainly left no evidence of it.

It was really starting to look like he was going to have to spend a week at Ziva's beck and call. What would she make him do? There really was very little they had ruled out, he realized, and shuddered at the thought. Why couldn't Gibbs have more rules?

Well, at least he had gotten a nice week out of the bet. There was still no case for the MCRT, which meant paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. Well, it would have, if Tony hadn't been far too busy coming up with Plans to pay any attention to it. That meant that McGee and Ziva had had to take care of it, and while he slightly feared Ziva's payback, at least he had avoided death by boredom. He could probably even escape the worst of Ziva's wrath by spending extra time at work. After all, as per their agreement, the "slave" duties could not be work-related.

Still, he could avoid it all completely if only he could get into the Probie's head! He pulled out his piece of planning paper, which was by now completely covered in scribbles. He had crossed out "Hire a Psychic to Read McGee's Mind," but was that really such a bad idea? If McGee had a secret – and he just had to have one! – the only place to find it seemed to be his brain. So unless McGee up and confessed, mind reading would be the only way to get at it.

* * *

Half an hour later, Tony hung up the phone, disgusted. Who knew that mind readers charged such exorbitant prices?

He was definitely screwed.

* * *

At least Gibbs wasn't around to notice Tony's distraction. MacMillan's team had requested his help interrogating a suspect and the Boss had practically jumped at the chance.

(The baristas at Gibbs' preferred coffee place were offering prayers of thankfulness. Any more days of pure paperwork and they might have developed serious health issues from trying to keep up with their best customer's ever increasing demands.)

Tony, being rather experienced in the art of what he called "taking ten" (and what others tended to call"slacking off"), had decided to hang out in Observation. It was the perfect place. It let him keep an eye on Gibbs without letting Gibbs keep an eye on him, meaning he could kick back without having to worry about ending up on the receiving end of a headslap. If only MacMillan's team hadn't been hanging around the room, too. It was kind hard to relax when people kept shooting you such dark looks.

In Interrogation, Gibbs seemed to be heavily bluffing. If they had really had that much evidence on the guy already, they wouldn't have called in Gibbs to break him. But the guy was falling for it and started confessing even things which, from the look on MacMillan's face, he hadn't even been suspected of. Tony watched in fascination and almost missed his cue to dash off as Gibbs wrapped up the interrogation and made for the door. He was still slightly out of breath when Gibbs returned to the squad room, but there was a Plan forming in the back of his mind.

Best to try it at night. Everyone's defenses were down at night. He'd be cutting it close, but that was exactly his way, living on the edge.


	3. Part 3: The Results

**Part 3: The Results**

"McGee." When his cell phone buzzed on his bedside table, Tim didn't even bother to glance at the screen. It was far too late for any reasonable person to be calling, and (after several not-so-good experiences) he had programmed his phone to ring extra loud when Gibbs called. That only left one person.

"Probie, it's me." Tony. His calling at this hour was, while not exactly expected, certainly not surprising. The senior field agent had been acting crazy even by DiNozzo standards this past week. Tim had no idea why Tony was behaving so oddly around him, and at the moment he really didn't care. He just wanted to get rid of him so he could go back to sleep.

"What do you want, Tony?"

"What the hell were you _thinking_, Probie?"

"Uh…"

"Did you really think nobody would find out! You work for _Gibbs_, remember? He always knows everything! And I think he just figured it out and he is going to _kill_ you!"

"Tony, what-"

"I know we've had our differences, man, but I wouldn't wish a Gibbs that angry on my worst enemy! Look, I can't talk right now, but this time I'm on your side. Meet me in autopsy at six thirty tomorrow and I'll try to find a way to help you, okay?"

Tim was left staring blankly at his cell phone as Tony hung up abruptly. What on earth? Why was Tony calling him, barely coherent, in the middle of the night? Had he lost it completely? That certainly would explain his recent behavior…

And then Tony's words started to sink in. He knew. And not just him. Gibbs did, too. And _his_ reaction was so bad that _Tony_ was _worried_ about him. Tim felt the panic rise in his chest. He'd known when he wrote it that _Deep Six _could get him into deep trouble, but he had for the most part just avoided thinking about that. Now he really wished he hadn't.

He knew he should have changed the names more, knew it was too dangerous, but couldn't bring himself to do it. With different names, it just didn't feel right. It had been almost as if the personalities of his friends and coworkers were somehow entrenched in their names, as if he couldn't capture their essence any other way. What nonsense! Different names would have meant nothing to the readers and might have been able to save him!

And what had he been thinking, using an anagram of his real name as his pseudonym? He _hadn't_ been thinking, that was the problem. He knew he couldn't publish his book under his real name, but he had wanted to, anyway. Had wanted the credit, wanted it to be _his_ name on the cover and had gotten as close as he could to that by using an anagram. He'd been so ridiculously, implausibly sure that no one would make the connection. If only he had gone with a completely made up name, maybe…

Oh, who was he kidding. He worked for _Gibbs_, for God's sake. Nothing ever got by him. _Why_ had he thought he could publish a book based on his boss and have it escape the man's notice?

It arrogance, plain and simple. He'd though he'd been so clever, outwitted one of the best investigators in the country. Now he would simply have to pay the price.

The panic gave way to resignation. There was no way he could possibly get out of this. Even if he quit his job and never showed his face in the Naval Yard again, Gibbs would still find him and make his life hell. Better to just face the music head on and get it over with.

Especially if he had Tony on his side. But _why _was Tony on his side? If anything, he should be _more_ pissed than Gibbs. Tibbs was the protagonist, the all-round hero, the one who saved the day when all others failed. Agent Tommy, on the other hand… well, maybe Tony had recognized that while Tommy was based in part on him, he really was a fictional character who was different from Tony in many ways, too. (Yeah, right.)

Sighing, Tim crawled out of bed. He couldn't change what would happen tomorrow, couldn't even really anticipate it, but that didn't mean his mind would stop running through terrifying scenarios. He knew he wouldn't be getting any more sleep tonight, so he trudged over to his computer and prepared to battle some ogres.

* * *

Tim gulped as he entered NCIS headquarters early the next morning. His rationality telling him he had to deal with the fallout from his actions was all well and good, but it didn't stop his basic instinct from yelling at him to run as far away as he could as fast as he could.

He was vibrating with nerves (though some of the shaking may have been due to the tremendous amounts of coffee he had consumed in order to feel at least halfway awake) and took some deep breaths to steady himself. He could do this. He would meet Tony in Autopsy, find out how he was planning to help him, and then at least he wouldn't be alone when he had to face Gibbs. That in itself would make a world of difference.

He would stay calm and try to explain himself. Even if it was based on his coworkers, he would make the point that his book was still _fiction_. It didn't retell any of their cases, nor did it delve into his friends' real private lives. He had simply used people he knew as a jumping off point. There really wasn't anything wrong with that. Yes, he would make his point calmly and collectedly and then brave whatever wrath were to come.

Then the doors of the elevator slid open, and just like that all his good intentions flew out the window. In the elevator, facing him with an expression entirely too terrifying for this early an hour, stood Gibbs.

* * *

Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs was having a good morning. He'd gotten in before the irritating hustle and bustle that accompanied the beginning of a work day, his coffee was perfect (read: scalding hot and strong enough to strip stomach lining) and he's just settled a question that had been niggling the back of his mind for a few days.

Specifically, the question of what the hell DiNozzo was up to. He had been busily scribbling something for days now, but had never even handed in the report he'd started a week ago. Ziva and McGee had had to handle the brunt of the paperwork. McGee, as usual, had done it diligently and with an air of longsuffering, whereas Ziva had a vengeful gleam in her eye when her gaze drifted in her partner's direction.

Ordinarily, he'd have dealt DiNozzo a headslap and made sure he got back to doing his job, but he'd decided to see how this team dynamic played out. After two days, he was sure something was going on. Tony hadn't been in any way productive, and while McGee had grumbled and lectured him about possibilities of increasing workplace productivity, Ziva had, uncharacteristically, done nothing. She seemed to be biding her time. But for what? Well, now he knew.

Finding the answer to his questions had been surprisingly easy. Nothing could stay secret from him for long once he set his mind to discovering it, but he had expected it to be slightly more challenging than just ambling over to DiNozzo's desk and picking up the piece of paper sitting on top.

From the density of the inked lines, it appeared to be the paper he had been writing on for the past few days. There were notes on both the front and back in no apparent order, often upside down or squeezed along the sides. Between the crossed out words "Get baby pictures from his parents, then blackmail him with them" and a doodle of a skull, he found what had originally been a heading: How To Find McGee's Secret.

Well, that was straightforward enough. The rest of the scribbles appeared to be failed strategies, from "Find old girlfriends and mine them for information" to "Visit him at night and convince him that he's dreaming". In one corner, however, he could make out the words "If Ziva Wins," followed by a list of his Rules. That told him enough.

At that moment, the doors of the elevator slid opened and revealed McGee, who was staring at him with an expression not unlike a deer in headlights. Just before the doors started to close, he seemed to unfreeze and rushed into the elevator.

"Boss! Boss, I'm really, really sorry and I know I shouldn't have done it but I thought it was harmless 'cause in the end it's still fiction and you're the hero anyway but I used you without permission well not actually you but you know what I mean and I'm sorry for that and I know you don't like apologies so I'll stop saying I'm sorry now just please don't fire me and I promise-"

Gibbs watched with concern as his youngest agent started turning a pale shade of blue while he rattled on without stopping to draw a breath. This had gone far enough. He placed both hands on the other man's shoulders and looked him straight in the eye.

"McGee. Breathe."

Never one to disobey a direct order, McGee shut up and took a shuddering breath. He was still shaking and pale as a sheet, so Gibbs waited for him to take several more.

"Now what the hell are babbling about?"

"The book, Boss!"

The elevator had reached the squad room and Gibbs strode out, McGee scrambling to keep up.

"This book?" He pulled out a copy of _Deep Six _from behind his desk and held it up in front of his agent, who nodded and looked on the verge of fainting again. "McGee, I don't care!"

Since McGee was now doing a rather good impression of a drowning fish, Gibbs continued uninterrupted.

"I don't give a damn what you do in your free time as long as it doesn't affect work. So you wrote a crime novel based on your job. As long as your fiction doesn't interfere with any of our real investigations _I. Don't. Care_. Got it?"

"B- but, but Tony said-"

"Tony," he said clearly, "has been trying to find blackmail material on you for a week now."

"So… I'm not fired?"

"Not yet," Gibbs growled. "But you will be soon if you don't quit acting like a moron."

He took one last look at his junior agent (whose mouth was still hanging slightly open) and headed back to the elevator. He needed more coffee.

* * *

Tony was feeling supremely confident as he walked (or rather, strutted) into Autopsy. The Probie had had all night to tumble into a complete, all-consuming panic. He was probably already waiting for him, a quivering mess, and ready to beg him for help. It was pathetic, really. Once this was over, he'd have to work harder to toughen him up. For now, though, he was going to shamelessly use his weakness. He had no choice, not when his liberty and dignity were riding on it.

Slightly surprised, he realized that Autopsy was still empty. Then surprise turned to shock as the doors hissed open and McGee strode into the room with an air of complete confidence, not a single trace of anxiety anywhere.

"McGee?"

"Tony?"

Ah, now his face was showing concern. Better.

"Are you… okay?"

Wait, what?

"I wasn't sure if you'd even remember calling me last night, but since you're here, I guess you do. What on earth was that about? You weren't making any sense. Is everything all right?"

Damn.

* * *

He trudged over to Ziva's desk. She had just arrived and was busy arranging the things on her desk just so, but looked up when he approached.

"I give up. You were right. Our McGeek has absolutely no secrets whatsoever. So do your worst, for the next week, I am at your mercy."

She didn't gloat. At all. She merely looked content. That scared him.

"Only _after_ work, of course!"

"Of course, Tony."

He really didn't like the way she was smiling so sweetly.

* * *

"All right, that's enough for today. I'll see you all tomorrow."

Tony groaned and stretched. It was another day in their personal paperwork hell and the first day he'd actually joined in the fun. It reminded him why he never did his paperwork in the first place. Well, at least it was over now. Even whatever Ziva would come up with for him had to be better than writing reports. Speaking of which…

"I have something for you, Tony." She was still sporting that sweet, devious smile. This was not going to be good.

"Oh?"

"Oh yes. You were so busy working on your plans for McGee that you did not work on very many files this week. That is why I saved you some." With that, she dumped a truly enormous pile of folders on his desk.

"Wait a minute! We said it couldn't have anything to do with work!"

"No, we said it could not _interfere_ with our work. But Gibbs just said we could go home, so if stay to do some extra paperwork, that would not interfere at all."

"But-"

"Have fun, Tony. I will see you in the morning, and I expect you to have them all done by then."

Tony banged his head against his desk, repeatedly. Damn, damn, damn! Sighing, he straightened up and opened the first folder. Better to just get it over with. But this was it. He had learned his lesson. He was definitely never going to try to mess with Ziva ever again.

This time, the snort came from Gibbs.


End file.
